


she is beautiful

by cobblestaubrey



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Fluff, I'm shit at endings, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Trans Male Character, can't write smut sorry so i won't lol, my b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 17:46:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19773283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobblestaubrey/pseuds/cobblestaubrey
Summary: Maxwell Heller loves Miz Cracker; she's everything he is not. Beautiful. Confident. Loved.





	she is beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, this is my first fanfiction on this site! I wrote a little before, but I've been reading tons here so I decided on my own. Even if Craquaria is dead. I think it gets better near the end then gets kinda not great. It's all edited by me so if I make a mistake, my b.

Miz Cracker is protection. They call her beautiful, they call her gorgeous, they call her ‘her’.

Miz Cracker is a character, and she is not Maxwell Heller. She is what he’d imagine would be his perfect woman, had he been into that. And he is not her, she is not real.

He lets them call him a ladyboy, a woman, a fantasy. Because it’s a character.

If someone wants to call him a woman, he assumes it’s Miz Cracker they’re referring to, never him.

If they want to point out his short stature, his soft jaw, his soft eyes, it’s not his, it’s hers, it’s her delicate features that make her beautiful.

If he’s in drag, they’re hers. Not his.

He’s not a woman. But she is, and she’s beautiful.

He’s not beautiful.

Maxwell Heller is a man, and he’s never quite felt like anything other than that.

Miz Cracker is protection, because if they’re calling her a woman, at least they’re not calling him one.

...

At the end of the day, Maxwell can’t hate his hips because at least they don’t look like Miz Cracker’s. His eyelashes aren’t as long, his chest doesn’t protrude, his lips aren’t as pink.

She is everything he is not, and that simultaneously makes him feel better about the little things, but it also makes him hate himself more. Men want Miz Cracker. Maybe it’s the ambiguity, the temptation, some fetish, but men want her. Who wants Maxwell Heller?

So he stays in drag as long as the clubs let him, as long as Drag Race lets him. At least America will want him then.

He knows they won’t allow him to do his confessionals in drag. He may not want this, but his face will be projected across thousands of television screens across the country, open to criticism and scrutiny and rejection.

When he’s done filming his confessionals for the day, he goes into his hotel room and repeats what he’s said in the mirror. Watching every movement of his jaw and eyes. And he hates it.

He hates his eyes and his lips and his nose.

He looks at pictures of her and he loves her.

He loves her eyes and her lips and her nose.

He wonders who else loves her for those things and if they could ever love him for his.

Of course they won’t, he thinks bitterly. He is not a fantasy.

He showers and he never looks down. He feels pin pricks around his chest and lathers soap to scrub any makeup off that he might have missed.

Maxwell Heller doesn’t wear makeup, Miz Cracker does.

Maxwell Heller is not Miz Cracker, Miz Cracker is a dream.

Maxwell was manmade and he still could not reach expectations.

At least, not his own.

...

He catches Aquaria staring, but she’s only a character too.

Maxwell is a plot device and Aquaria is a front runner, and she only looks his way because he’s Miz Cracker.

On the streets of New York, Giovanni would have never spared a passing glance.

Maxwell would need three shots of liquid courage before he could wobble over to Giovanni and pretend like he didn’t want to take her home.

Miz Cracker struts over to Aquaria’s workplace and leans his elbows on her table, getting into her space and staying there until she’s pressed for time.

Their conversation only lulls when Maxwell comes back up like vile in his own head and asks himself if Giovanni would enjoy a man she could tower over, if Giovanni wants a man like him?

‘A man like what?’ He asks himself.

He doesn’t need an answer. He’s been given it his whole life, anyway.

Maxwell changes behind his luggage and Miz Cracker does her makeup in front of the brightly lit mirrors, surrounded by all of the other transformations.

Maxwell thinks that these girls are lucky that they can transform in an hour and take it off in less time.

His transformations took a little more work. At least Miz Cracker’s takes less anguish. Sort of.

He never voices this when the cameras are around, which feels like almost always at this point. America may know Miz Cracker but he will not allow them to know Maxwell Heller.

Maxwell Heller is a secret kept under lock and key, while Miz Cracker is an open book, a best seller being read out loud to the world.

But Maxwell Heller wants to get to know Giovanni Palandrani. He wants to take her out to brunch because he knows Gio is never awake for breakfast, he wants to walk around Central Park in the afternoon and watch a movie in his cramped apartment at night.

Miz Cracker knows she’ll only see Aquaria at the dead of midnight inside a buzzing club, performing for everyone to see. She’ll mention Miz Cracker on stage as the next act and Miz Cracker pretends she doesn’t care if Aquaria leaves or not before her set is over. Her eyes rake across the club, hoping to find what she’s looking for, only to circle back disappointed each night. Miz Cracker is a fantasy but Aquaria is something more, something unreachable, a legend, a myth, a desire with little sustenance.

Maxwell wants a quiet night at home, his arm delicately wrapped around Giovanni, whispering how much he wanted the younger man. He wanted Gio to whisper back, tell him he caught her eye the minute she first saw Maxwell out of drag, that she was attracted to Maxwell because he was everything Miz Cracker wasn’t.

That Maxwell was rough around the edges, had stubble that Giovanni could feel as she caressed the older man’s face, Maxwell’s body was solid, that Gio couldn’t help herself from clawing at his shirt, his pants, his belt, told that Maxwell was desirable.

Miz Cracker was an idea, she had put Maxwell in a shadow. He didn’t want her frame or her hair, he wanted her charm and her confidence.

He wanted the love Miz Cracker was given, the attention.

He wanted Giovanni to love him, not appreciate 'her'.

...

Aquaria finds him at a bar three blocks over from his usual gigs.

Maxwell spotted her as soon as he walked in, avoiding her behind crowds of people and sitting at the bar, ordering whatever can make him forget her the fastest.

She sees him after ten minutes, and he’s never wished he was smaller before, small enough to slip away before she could have noticed.

But he’s Maxwell and he’s small enough to get drunk on less than thirty dollars, but not small enough to vanish.

Aquaria is still as tall as always out of drag.

Because Giovanni wears heels out of drag.

Maxwell Heller isn’t beautiful, he doesn’t wear heels. He wears a pair of three year old velvet suede shoes he bought to show Maxwell could have nice things too, and he hasn’t bought another pair of good shoes since.

Aquaria and Giovanni blend at the seams, Gio’s eyebrows are a few shades off of Aquaria’s with lips just as plump. Her frame is as frail and skinny but her ripped jeans scream skater boy and Maxwell is a little jealous, because he’s always known that Aquaria’s confidence stems from Gio, it’s not created in spite of him.

He’s Maxwell tonight, and has no idea why Giovanni has even bothered to say anything.

Aquaria is buzzed, a little off balance, but still steady enough to lean on the bar and make eye contact with the bartender to ask for whatever Maxwell has been having. She throws a twenty onto the table and doesn’t bother to check what happens to it.

She turns to Maxwell and asks what he’s doing here, low but audible over the music, in a tone he can’t pinpoint but is too out of it to fret over.

He shrugs, tries not to make eye contact for too long but can’t resist the dark eyes that follow his every moment.

‘I could be asking you the same thing.’

Giovanni laughs, maybe too much, and Maxwell doesn’t let himself wonder what it means. He’s not sure if Gio is sobering him up or if she’s intoxicating enough to make him feel drunker.

‘It won’t be long until every gay club in New York State knows who we are. I’d like to take advantage of the ones that don’t.’

Giovanni’s right, Maxwell thinks. This one is just small enough, just old enough to be avoided by younger guys, the ones who knew and Instagram-stalked both of them before the show even started airing, but garnered enough attention to leave the dance floor full, blocking most patrons eyes from the bar where the two were.

Maxwell nods in response, Aquaria tips back a shot.

Maxwell wants to ask what she’s doing with him.

He’s drunk enough to let half of that slip.

‘What are you doing?’

Giovanni fills in the rest.

She puts her hand on his shoulder, leaning in slightly, and looks Maxwell right in the eyes.

He hates his eyes, but he keeps them on hers, even if she may hate them too.

She doesn’t. But he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know much about Maxwell outside of his own ideas.

His heart races as she leans in, trying to quiet his breaths.

‘I don’t want to be here.’

He feels a pang in his chest, a mix of anxiety and a strange sense of arousal, and he wants to look away. He doesn’t.

‘And I don’t want you here either.’

Maxwell thinks maybe Gio is too drunk to be making any sense, that she doesn’t know what she’s saying, but Giovanni’s hand slips from his shoulder and down his arm, biting her lip just slightly, and Maxwell remembers that Giovanni may not be more than buzzed.

‘Come home with me.’

Aquaria doesn’t say this in a whisper, but it’s loud enough in the club that it could be taken as one.

Maxwell’s breath hitches, his face flashes confusion before he can stop it.

Aquaria’s hand moves from his arm into his own, squeezing lightly.

‘You’re fuckin’ crazy if you think people only want Miz Cracker.’

Maxwell Heller is too short for her. He’s too soft, too old, too timid.

But Miz Cracker is a woman, a fantasy Giovanni doesn’t dream about either.

There was no part of him that ever believed Gio would want him. He never allowed his thoughts to go there, never gave himself the satisfaction of a daydream backstage or a fantasy in his hotel room.

Giovanni squeezes his hand again, pulling him from his thoughts and reeling him back into reality. She’s still looking at him, eyes soft.

‘Who wants Maxwell?’

He asks, half knowing the answer now, half waiting for the glass to break and have Aquaria walk away, because who would?

Giovanni doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, doesn’t sate him the way she knows he needs, she only tugs him out of his seat and out the door. Her Uber driver had been there for ten minutes, she says. She tips him heavily. He doesn’t complain.

They make it to Aquaria’s apartment and Maxwell has little time to admire the assortment of paintings adorning the walls, or the half finished dresses and half filled sketch books covering the kitchen table before Giovanni’s lips are on his, firmly, pressing him into the wall next to her apartment door.

Maxwell grabs her hips, slamming them into his, clawing into her jeans. His thumb hits the skin above the waist, digging into her sides.

Maxwell wants to lose himself in the feeling of her against him, but he knows he can’t pretend he doesn’t know where this is going, and he can’t pretend he can give her what she wants.

He pulls away too early for Aquaria, who keeps her hand on his cheek and tries to pull him back in. Maxwell sighs and closes his eyes, allowing for another peck or two before he removes his hands from her waist and side steps away from the wall. Giovanni wants to follow, but stays, her hands falling from his face. Maxwell walks over to her couch, and he slumps down, trying to forget the fact his feet barely touch the floor when he hits the back of the couch.

He takes in a few shallow breaths, trying to take in the moment before it all comes crashing down.

He’s spent more than a decade as Maxwell, now. Katelyn knows, his family knows, Bob knows.

No one else knows.

He has spent years buying duct tape he didn’t use and hiding behind curtains and changing at home before and after his shows. He thought his cover would be blown on Drag Race but one partition between him and the camera and wearing tights under his jeans was enough to protect his secret.

He’s not ashamed of who he is. But being gay is hard enough.

If they called him a woman, he could pretend they were referring to Miz Cracker.

But he’d know. He always knew the difference.

Giovanni takes his hand again, squeezes it just the same. It’s reassuring, it’s comforting, it’s scaring Maxwell with its softness.

‘I’m not drunk, I know what I want.’

Giovanni tries. He shakes his head, and Giovanni knows that’s not the issue.

‘I don’t care if you came here on the Mayflower.’

She offers a smile, it’s a joke, but Maxwell only sighs and looks away. It’s the first time he’s been able to avoid her eyes all night, and it hurts more than it helps.

Giovanni bites his lip, turning his head to try and catch his eye. She puts her hand back on his cheek, turning his face towards her.

‘Whatever it is. You won’t scare me away.’

Maxwell wants to believe her, so, so badly.

He wants to believe that he can tell her how he was born, how he was raised, how he created himself, how he built himself up from the ground and set fire to some metaphorical scrap book of his childhood, how he told his parents they could fuck off if they didn’t want him and then cried himself to sleep every night afterwards on the couch of a friend until they found him and told him they loved him, how he bought his first binder, how he’s injected himself with testosterone every week for the last ten years, how his first surgery wasn’t to remove his tonsils or wisdom teeth but the two growths on his chest he’d been ignoring for almost fifteen years.

He says nothing. He swallows, hard, and even though he’s been trying to open his mouth for the last two minutes, he can’t. His anxiety is building up and his heart is pounding, his feels like his chest is swelling like a balloon and he can’t get anymore air in.

Giovanni can see he’s breaking down, silently, trying not to, but behind his eyes is a scared man, someone terrified, someone looking for reassurance they can’t predict will come. The same fear Gio felt coming out to her parents, the same fear she had felt coming out to the world, but she knows Maxwell is gay, and she doesn’t know what else there is to be at this point.

Of course, Giovanni does know what else there is to be, but the thought never crosses her mind.

She never removes her hand from his.

‘Whatever you are- whoever you are, I don’t care, Max.’

It’s the first time she’s said his name all night, she had slipped in Cracker once between moans, too used to the show to say his name, but she does, and it sounds beautiful coming from her lips.

‘I can’t give you what you want, Gio.’

It’s quiet, it’s just a bit broken, it’s too soft for his liking. He wants to repeat it, lower this time, stronger, but how can he say that and pretend he’s fine?

Giovanni furrows her brows, and he’s still a little buzzed and can’t help but just sort of throw out -

‘What, like, do you- is your dick, like, below-’

‘No, no- it’s not, no, that’s not it.’

Maxwell has to cut her off, it’s a ludicrous situation and he blows a little more air out of his nose than usual. He doesn’t want her to keep playing this guessing game because it’s not fair for either of them.

He takes one big breath and looks at Giovanni, breathes her in, traces her jaw with his eyes and decides if he’s going to trust anyone, it’s Giovanni. He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t understand why he feels safer now than he had coming out to Katelyn or Bob, but he does, and he doesn’t want this feeling to end. But he has to say something.

He doesn’t know where to start, so he starts at what he considers the end.

‘Nine years ago I underwent reconstructive surgery to flatten my chest, and I still can’t feel my nipples to this day.’

Is what he blurts out, unsure of what he was going to say but spitting out whatever he could, because at least it was something.

Giovanni says nothing, but her hand doesn’t leave his own. He swallows again, trying to fight the tears burning in his eyes - they somehow become more feminine when they’re bloodshot, and he doesn’t want to give Giovanni any more reason to see him as less of a man.

Any more reason than he’s already given.

‘Max…’

Giovanni whispers out, and she knows how important this is not to mess up. She knows now how long Maxwell has been holding in this secret, can imagine the nights spent afraid of the world finding out.

‘You are still a man, inside and out. And nothing you’ve said has or will ever change that. ‘

Maxwell thinks he’s an idiot, that he shouldn’t have ruined the moment, losing his chance to see Gio bite her lip again, moan into his ear, he could have had her in her bed and stripped her down and touched her for hours, and left, like he assumes she wanted. A quick, one night stand she could forget about in the morning.

He could have avoided the look in her eyes, something he assumes is a mix of pity and well disguised disgust, because he’s never thought to look for anything different.

Giovanni still thinks Maxwell defies all her expectations.

Giovanni doesn’t have a type, she just wants someone who makes her feel alive and makes her want to go home to, someone who makes her want to leave a crowded bar where the music sends electricity through her, and she finds that in Maxwell, she finds it in his smile and his eyes and every time his nose bumps into hers, close enough for them to share breaths.

Maxwell thinks it’s quiet for too long, and he’s afraid that this will be the end of whatever this quick stint is. Aquaria will walk out of that door, block his number, and they’ll see each other at the reunion when Maxwell is Miz Cracker and Aquaria is Aquaria, and they’ll play make believe that their drama ended and they remained good friends after the show finished.

Both are somewhat true, but far enough from the truth that it makes Maxwell’s stomach hurt.

Giovanni’s hand leaves Maxwell’s, and he’s afraid he’s finally blown it. There were flings here and there and a serious relationship once upon a time but he’s never had that magnetic pull he had heard about before until Giovanni sauntered into his home bar those years ago, barely 19, and Maxwell had felt like a creep. He had also felt tethered, and when they parted ways until Drag Race, he had spent nights trying to rid her from his mind.

He’s called back from the memory by cool air hitting the top of his chest, realizing Giovanni had unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

She’s staring at him, waiting for confirmation that she can keep going, and he nods, so slightly that Giovanni would have missed it were she not intently searching for an answer.

The cold air spreads further down, until it reaches numb skin.

His nerves had never fully reconnected, and he had missed the feeling of hands on his chest, fingers running down, feeling nails dig deliciously hard into his skin.

At this point, it didn’t matter if he could feel it or not, the look in Giovanni’s eyes as she watches her own fingers splay out across his chest was all that mattered in the moment.

Giovanni wants Maxwell to do whatever he could and wants to do to her. The way his firm chest felt, knowing that his ragged breaths were caused by more than the dull sensation, she wants more, she wants to touch everywhere and anywhere, and she is going to if he’ll let her.

She leans forward and takes his bottom lip in between hers, undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt to reveal the rest of his torso. He groans when she climbs into his lap, helping him shimmy his way out of now confining fabric. When it comes off, she wraps her arms around his neck, keeping him close. The feeling of his chest against the thin fabric of her crop top wasn’t enough, and she pulls away (much to Maxwell’s protest), practically ripping it off. Maxwell no longer protests.

Maxwell wanted to be strong, so he was. He wanted to be the opposite of Miz Cracker, the opposite of her soft curves and so he was.

He learns that those aren’t necessarily bad things to be when he basks in the sound of Giovanni’s yelp as he picks her up off the couch, carrying her to her bedroom (which he couldn’t find at first, rolling his eyes when Giovanni giggles at him but blushing all the same).

He wasn’t usually so rough, but something about throwing Giovanni onto her bed and watching her splay out, beckoning him with her eyes and just barely spread legs made him think he should take control more often, that he could be confident, he could be something to her.

He doesn’t know Gio’s expectations. He isn’t sure of what she wants, he isn’t sure of himself, but as he approaches the bed his nerves settle.

He isn't a fantasy, he isn’t perfect, he isn’t a dream.

But the look in Giovanni’s darkened eyes, swirling with lust, fingers clawing at the bed sheets, he doesn't want to be any of that.

Giovanni wants Maxwell.

It doesn’t matter how Giovanni feels about Miz Cracker.

He is not Miz Cracker.

Giovanni knows that, and Maxwell can tell with every moan of his name against his ear.

He wants to be Maxwell tonight because Giovanni wants Maxwell tonight.

He’ll learn later she wants him for more than a night. But this is a start.


End file.
